


let's mark this one down for a fail, boys

by Pomodoridori



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Brutality, Gen, Violence, also theres references to beatings, does this count as misery porn? i dont really know., kimblee has a bath but its really horrible for everyone involved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:02:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24693484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pomodoridori/pseuds/Pomodoridori
Summary: Kimblee has a bath. It's a little traumatic.
Relationships: None, kimblee/misery and pain i guess
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15





	let's mark this one down for a fail, boys

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written two years ago-- i was thinking about how the hell kimblee managed basic necessities with his hands permanently in those pillories. How did he relieve himself? Or bathe??? Get dressed??? Did the amestrian guards have to do all those things for him? If so, jfc that’s horrible for everyone involved. Wouldn’t it have been better to destroy kimblee’s hand tattoos somehow? Though that would probably require burning them off-- which is not great either. Anyway, I cleaned it up a bit and am posting this here.

It was hard to sleep in prison. The cot was a bit too small, even for littlish man like Kimblee, and his feet stuck over the edge of the bed. It was lumpy, filled with straw— that wouldn’t have been a problem had it not been so damp. As it was the cot smelled like mold and bugs flocked to it. And sleeping with the pillory wasn’t easy either. It twisted his back at an odd angle if he tried to sleep on his side, and bit into his belly when he slept on his back. Sleeping prone was impossible, of course, unless he wanted to wake up in the middle of the night nauseous and numb from the waist down and about to piss himself. 

But humans could adapt to almost anything, and while sleeping was never quite  _ comfortable,  _ it was doable. 

Sleeping wasn’t  _ too _ bad. It was the bathing that was impossible. 

The first time Kimblee had been taken out of his cell, he was sick of marinating in his own juices. Grease slicked his hair in a rank mess, and he could  _ feel _ the layer of it on his face, heavy and slick and itchy. It made him feel unhealthy, like he’d been sick for a week. 

It’d been the middle of the night, almost a month into his sentence, when the guards had thrown open the door and dragged him out of bed. He didn’t know what was happening at first, and thrashed right up until his head hit the floor with a sickening thud. Kimblee’s vision went blurry, and the guards heaved him up by his elbows. He stumbled weakly to his feet, blinking at the lights and trying to stop shaking. 

_ What the hell is happening _ , he thought.  _ Fuck, they’re not going to beat me, are they? _ He snarled something at them, and one of the guards, the one with the beard, snapped, “Shut up, Kimblee.”

Kimblee shut up and let them drag him out of his cell. He’d learned it was better to be docile his first week here. Being docile meant you didn’t get hit. He  _ still _ had bruises and cuts from that last beating. They weren’t closing up properly, and at least two of them were infected. They’d probably scar. 

The guards led Kimblee down a long corridor that felt somewhat familiar but he couldn’t be sure. They made a turn to the left, then took a door on the right, and back down another corridor and two more turns left. Kimblee was thoroughly lost, still blinking the sleep from his eyes. That, and his head hurt from when the guards had knocked him to the ground in his cell. Kimblee  _ really _ hoped they didn’t beat him. He wondered if it was a standard practice to beat war criminals, or if he was just a special case. It wasn’t  _ his _ fault he got off on violence and destruction.

They stopped in a great long room with tile floors and walls, and a big metal drain at the end of it. Kimblee frowned. “What’s—”

“Be quiet, Kimblee,” a guard ordered, and reluctantly Kimblee shut his mouth. His shoulders were stiff and tense. 

The two guards led him over to the back wall towards the drain. Kimblee was...nervous, to say the least. The man with the beard shoved him forward without warning, and Kimblee, still clumsy from sleep, overbalanced and fell into the wall. One of the guards laughed, and before Kimblee could shoot him a dirty look there were hands yanking the pillory up into the air. Then the guard was securing it to the wall somehow, just high up enough to put a bad strain on Kimblee’s shoulders. He stood on his toes to lessen the pain and tried to touch his palms to the wall. He couldn’t reach, and Kimblee sagged back downwards in bitter disappointment. 

Changing tactics, Kimblee growled. “What’re you—”

“Shut up, we said,” the taller guard snapped. “God, he smells like shit.”

Kimblee bristled. “Of course I smell like shit, I haven’t—”

The bearded man smacked him across the mouth and he tasted blood.  _ Fuck.  _ Kimblee’s body tensed up, ready for more blows to rain down, but the guard pulled back. 

“We’re bathing you,” the man admitted, resentful. 

Kimblee allowed himself a moment of panic before he narrowed his eyes. “Well, get on with it, then,” he snapped.

The guards scowled but didn’t move. 

The silence grew long and awkward. Kimblee’s back was cramping up, and his barely suppressed grimace seemed to break the guards out of their trance. 

“Right,” the tall one said, “let’s get this over with.”

He stepped forward and began to strip Kimblee. Kimblee wanted to pull away from the prying heavy hands but held still instead: he refused to contradict himself. The guard managed to yank Kimblee’s tank top to his wrists, and then looped the fabric over the pillory so it would stay elevated. Then, with a grimace, the man yanked down Kimblee’s pants, snagging his boxers on the way. The air was cold on Kimblee’s bare skin, and he shivered. He felt exposed. Vulnerable. Which he was.

The guard pulled away, looking vaguely uncomfortable, and Kimblee fought the urge to curl in on himself. The man with the beard had been fiddling with a knob on the wall, detaching a nozzle with his other hand. He tossed the showerhead (trailing after it was a flexible mesh hose) to the guard who’d stripped Kimblee, and then suddenly there was water spraying on his chest.

Kimblee sucked a breath in between his teeth, unable to hold in his flinch. The water was ice cold. He should’ve expected it, but-- but--

“Kimblee. Kimblee.” One of the guards was snapping his finger in front of his eyes to grab his attention. Kimblee focused on the fingers, and then looked to the man’s face. The bravado had faded from the guard’s eyes, and now he seemed deeply uncomfortable.

“We’re-- we’re gonna start with your hair. Then work top down. No funny business.”

Kimblee resisted the urge to spit in his face, and managed a tight lipped grimace that was almost a smile.

The cleaning was quick and perfunctory. Still, Kimblee was shaking from the cold (and repressed fury) by the time they were done. And he’d kneed one of the guards in the gut when he’d felt slick, slimy hands worm their way between his thighs. That had earned him a slap across the face that still throbbed.  _ It was worth it, though. _

He was shoved unceremoniously back in his cell, hair dripping everywhere.  _ I might be cleaner, _ Kimblee thought,  _ but I’ve never felt so dirty in my life. _

He tossed and turned the rest of the night, and woke with a fever in the morning.


End file.
